these inconvenient fireworks (gift for dsudis)
Title: these inconvenient fireworks
Author: darthjamtart
Recipient: dsudis
Pairings: Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,300
Warnings: None.
Summary: Lydia gets what she wants.
Author's Notes: title from Vienna Teng’s “Stray Italian Greyhound”
these inconvenient fireworks
Jackson brings her a mocha frappuccino before lacrosse practice. It’s barely started to melt, which means he broke the speed limit driving back from the Starbucks - the closest one is ten minutes out, at a legal pace. She’s sitting on the bleachers with Allison, watching the players jog across the field, and Jackson holds out the offering like a supplicant approaching his queen.
She stares down her nose at him. “I prefer green tea,” she says, as icy as the contents of the cup. Jackson nods, and the mocha frappuccino lands in the nearby trashcan.
“He was trying to be nice,” Allison says. Lydia wrinkles her nose, keeping her gaze fixed on Jackson as he runs out to join the other players.
“He can try harder,” Lydia replies.
###
Jackson brings her a green tea frappuccino before lacrosse practice. Like yesterday’s mocha, it’s barely started to melt. This time, when he approaches, she extends a regal hand and accepts the cup. She takes a single, delicate sip, and hands it back.
“This isn’t non-fat,” she says.
Jackson nods, duly chastised, and the cup lands in the waiting trashcan.
“Why are you being so mean to him?” Allison asks, and Lydia turns to bestow a condescending smile on her friend.
“How else will he learn?”
###
“It’s too cold for a frappuccino today,” Lydia says, the next time Jackson approaches the bleachers. His brow furrows as he looks down at what she knows is a perfect, non-fat, green tea frappuccino, then looks up at the clear, sunny sky. It’s close to 70 in the shade, and Lydia knows the light is bringing out the shades of gold in her hair.
He knows better than to argue. The frappuccino lands in the trashcan, and Allison sighs.
“It’s so wasteful,” Allison says, apparently having given up on appealing to Lydia’s kindness.
Lydia tilts her head, considering this. “You’re right,” she decides, and beckons Jackson back to the bleachers.
He approaches warily, as he should.
“The disposable cups are bad for the environment,” Lydia informs him, then gestures for him to shoo.
###
“I have to admit,” Allison says, as Lydia sips her favorite beverage out of a brand-new re-usable cup. “Your methods do seem to produce results.” Allison turns a contemplative gaze at the lacrosse field, where Scott is grinning at Stiles like a loon.
“This is just laying the groundwork,” Lydia says. “The good habits he’s developing now should carry over to other areas.”
“Like schoolwork?” Allison asks, and Lydia rolls her eyes.
“Sure. Whatever.”
###
Their first date after Jackson’s resurrection gets off to a bad start. Jackson climbs into his Porsche and turns on the engine before noticing that Lydia is still standing on the sidewalk, tapping her foot against the cement.
“What?” Jackson asks. Lydia arches an incredulous eyebrow, turns on her heel, and walks away. She’s almost back inside when she hears the engine turn off, the slam of a car door, Jackson calling for her to wait.
When she turns, he’s holding the passenger side door open for her. She raises her chin and holds position for a moment, pretending to consider.
He’s almost sweating by the time she slides gracefully into the passenger seat, and she is pleased to note that he’s gentle about closing the door.
They have dinner reservations at her favorite nice restaurant, and if Jackson doesn’t know that her actual favorite restaurant is a slightly run-down, family-owned Italian place, then that’s all right. He has time to learn, and the dress she’s wearing is more suited to upscale Vietnamese. He pulls out her chair for her at the table without being prompted, and she rewards him with a smile.
He walks her to her door that night as though they’ve never done this before, and maybe they haven’t, not like this. He hesitates, body curving toward her, one of his hands holding hers like he’s forgotten how to let go. She goes up on her toes to kiss him, and waits for his yearning to bleed through before pulling away, slipping through the door.
She doesn’t want to punish him for how he’s treated her over the last year, not really. Neither does she want the relationship they had before, even if it were possible - they’re not those people anymore. But it seems silly to pretend that this is some sort of fresh start, that she doesn’t know his body nearly as well as her own.
He’s smiling on the stoop when she opens the door. “Coming?” she asks, and disbelief wars with raw gratitude on his face. Never let him play poker with other people, she thinks, and then he is crowding her against the wall, pressing sweet, adoring kisses to her mouth, her neck.
In her bedroom, she forgets to be calculating for a few crucial seconds, overwhelmed by the heat of his skin beneath her fingers as she slides her hands underneath his shirt. He, in turn, seems stunned by each new inch of skin as he slides her dress from her shoulders to let it pool on the floor.
“I missed you,” he whispers, breath teasing across her collarbone. He maneuvers them toward the bed, and she lets herself fall.
She’s expecting him to touch her the way he used to: a greedy clutch of selfish desire, a predictable focus on the swell of her breasts over everything else. Instead, his fingers drift softly across her ribs, stroking achingly slowly down the curve of her hips. He trails lingering kisses up her forearm, over her stomach, down the inside of her thigh. His fingers curl around the back of her knee and he opens her up, darts his tongue at the very edge of her clit until she’s trembling, bucking up into his touch.
“Jackson,” she says, half plea, half benediction, and he pauses to catch his breath, his mouth slick and open against her leg.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it.
“I know,” she says, just as quiet, and she tugs him up onto the bed, presses him onto his back. His eyes are wide as she straddles him, like he can’t believe this is happening, and she watches his face as she slides down, letting herself get re-accustomed to the shape of him inside her.
His fingers play around the edge of her cunt as she moves, the added pressure of his knuckles quickly driving her into an orgasm that leaves her shaking. He’s impossibly hard inside her, and every time she shifts her weight the friction leaves her gasping, too sensitive to ride him the way she wants to. She settles for a slow, easy pace, one that brings him closer and closer without any urgency, and he smiles dreamily at her, letting her determine when or even if he gets to come.
She can tell when it’s too much, when he has to force himself still rather than roll his hips up to meet hers. She kisses him, then, leaning down, and the new angle brings him up sharp against untouched nerves. She rocks against him, and it’s just this side of painful, but it would hurt her more to leave him wanting.
His fingers tighten against her hips as he comes, and the open promise of his mouth beneath hers is everything she’s ever wanted from him. Her thighs ache but she doesn’t want to move, and his arms curl around her back, holding her close.
###
Jackson brings her a mocha frappuccino before lacrosse practice. Lydia stares down at him until he produces the second frappuccino in her re-usable cup: non-fat green tea, still perfectly cold. “I thought Allison might like the mocha,” Jackson says, and Allison looks confused but pleased. On the far side of the lacrosse field, Scott is staring at them in bewildered perturbation.
Lydia gestures for Jackson to go, but she smiles at him as he runs to join the other players, and the dreamy smile he returns to her from across the grass is the best kind of surrender.
Author: darthjamtart
Recipient: dsudis
Pairings: Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,300
Warnings: None.
Summary: Lydia gets what she wants.
Author's Notes: title from Vienna Teng’s “Stray Italian Greyhound”
these inconvenient fireworks
Jackson brings her a mocha frappuccino before lacrosse practice. It’s barely started to melt, which means he broke the speed limit driving back from the Starbucks - the closest one is ten minutes out, at a legal pace. She’s sitting on the bleachers with Allison, watching the players jog across the field, and Jackson holds out the offering like a supplicant approaching his queen.
She stares down her nose at him. “I prefer green tea,” she says, as icy as the contents of the cup. Jackson nods, and the mocha frappuccino lands in the nearby trashcan.
“He was trying to be nice,” Allison says. Lydia wrinkles her nose, keeping her gaze fixed on Jackson as he runs out to join the other players.
“He can try harder,” Lydia replies.
###
Jackson brings her a green tea frappuccino before lacrosse practice. Like yesterday’s mocha, it’s barely started to melt. This time, when he approaches, she extends a regal hand and accepts the cup. She takes a single, delicate sip, and hands it back.
“This isn’t non-fat,” she says.
Jackson nods, duly chastised, and the cup lands in the waiting trashcan.
“Why are you being so mean to him?” Allison asks, and Lydia turns to bestow a condescending smile on her friend.
“How else will he learn?”
###
“It’s too cold for a frappuccino today,” Lydia says, the next time Jackson approaches the bleachers. His brow furrows as he looks down at what she knows is a perfect, non-fat, green tea frappuccino, then looks up at the clear, sunny sky. It’s close to 70 in the shade, and Lydia knows the light is bringing out the shades of gold in her hair.
He knows better than to argue. The frappuccino lands in the trashcan, and Allison sighs.
“It’s so wasteful,” Allison says, apparently having given up on appealing to Lydia’s kindness.
Lydia tilts her head, considering this. “You’re right,” she decides, and beckons Jackson back to the bleachers.
He approaches warily, as he should.
“The disposable cups are bad for the environment,” Lydia informs him, then gestures for him to shoo.
###
“I have to admit,” Allison says, as Lydia sips her favorite beverage out of a brand-new re-usable cup. “Your methods do seem to produce results.” Allison turns a contemplative gaze at the lacrosse field, where Scott is grinning at Stiles like a loon.
“This is just laying the groundwork,” Lydia says. “The good habits he’s developing now should carry over to other areas.”
“Like schoolwork?” Allison asks, and Lydia rolls her eyes.
“Sure. Whatever.”
###
Their first date after Jackson’s resurrection gets off to a bad start. Jackson climbs into his Porsche and turns on the engine before noticing that Lydia is still standing on the sidewalk, tapping her foot against the cement.
“What?” Jackson asks. Lydia arches an incredulous eyebrow, turns on her heel, and walks away. She’s almost back inside when she hears the engine turn off, the slam of a car door, Jackson calling for her to wait.
When she turns, he’s holding the passenger side door open for her. She raises her chin and holds position for a moment, pretending to consider.
He’s almost sweating by the time she slides gracefully into the passenger seat, and she is pleased to note that he’s gentle about closing the door.
They have dinner reservations at her favorite nice restaurant, and if Jackson doesn’t know that her actual favorite restaurant is a slightly run-down, family-owned Italian place, then that’s all right. He has time to learn, and the dress she’s wearing is more suited to upscale Vietnamese. He pulls out her chair for her at the table without being prompted, and she rewards him with a smile.
He walks her to her door that night as though they’ve never done this before, and maybe they haven’t, not like this. He hesitates, body curving toward her, one of his hands holding hers like he’s forgotten how to let go. She goes up on her toes to kiss him, and waits for his yearning to bleed through before pulling away, slipping through the door.
She doesn’t want to punish him for how he’s treated her over the last year, not really. Neither does she want the relationship they had before, even if it were possible - they’re not those people anymore. But it seems silly to pretend that this is some sort of fresh start, that she doesn’t know his body nearly as well as her own.
He’s smiling on the stoop when she opens the door. “Coming?” she asks, and disbelief wars with raw gratitude on his face. Never let him play poker with other people, she thinks, and then he is crowding her against the wall, pressing sweet, adoring kisses to her mouth, her neck.
In her bedroom, she forgets to be calculating for a few crucial seconds, overwhelmed by the heat of his skin beneath her fingers as she slides her hands underneath his shirt. He, in turn, seems stunned by each new inch of skin as he slides her dress from her shoulders to let it pool on the floor.
“I missed you,” he whispers, breath teasing across her collarbone. He maneuvers them toward the bed, and she lets herself fall.
She’s expecting him to touch her the way he used to: a greedy clutch of selfish desire, a predictable focus on the swell of her breasts over everything else. Instead, his fingers drift softly across her ribs, stroking achingly slowly down the curve of her hips. He trails lingering kisses up her forearm, over her stomach, down the inside of her thigh. His fingers curl around the back of her knee and he opens her up, darts his tongue at the very edge of her clit until she’s trembling, bucking up into his touch.
“Jackson,” she says, half plea, half benediction, and he pauses to catch his breath, his mouth slick and open against her leg.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it.
“I know,” she says, just as quiet, and she tugs him up onto the bed, presses him onto his back. His eyes are wide as she straddles him, like he can’t believe this is happening, and she watches his face as she slides down, letting herself get re-accustomed to the shape of him inside her.
His fingers play around the edge of her cunt as she moves, the added pressure of his knuckles quickly driving her into an orgasm that leaves her shaking. He’s impossibly hard inside her, and every time she shifts her weight the friction leaves her gasping, too sensitive to ride him the way she wants to. She settles for a slow, easy pace, one that brings him closer and closer without any urgency, and he smiles dreamily at her, letting her determine when or even if he gets to come.
She can tell when it’s too much, when he has to force himself still rather than roll his hips up to meet hers. She kisses him, then, leaning down, and the new angle brings him up sharp against untouched nerves. She rocks against him, and it’s just this side of painful, but it would hurt her more to leave him wanting.
His fingers tighten against her hips as he comes, and the open promise of his mouth beneath hers is everything she’s ever wanted from him. Her thighs ache but she doesn’t want to move, and his arms curl around her back, holding her close.
###
Jackson brings her a mocha frappuccino before lacrosse practice. Lydia stares down at him until he produces the second frappuccino in her re-usable cup: non-fat green tea, still perfectly cold. “I thought Allison might like the mocha,” Jackson says, and Allison looks confused but pleased. On the far side of the lacrosse field, Scott is staring at them in bewildered perturbation.
Lydia gestures for Jackson to go, but she smiles at him as he runs to join the other players, and the dreamy smile he returns to her from across the grass is the best kind of surrender.